


old unhappy far off things

by auberjonois



Category: The Simpsons
Genre: Drinking, Eventual Romance, M/M, Pining, Poor Emotional Communication, Smoking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-18 16:19:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21730318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auberjonois/pseuds/auberjonois
Summary: It’s hardly a triumphant return to Springfield for Smithers, but maybe a little familiarity is what he needs to get back on his feet again. Now if only the town and the people in it didn’t have a gravity all their own.
Relationships: Charles Montgomery Burns/Waylon Smithers
Comments: 9
Kudos: 58





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> “Life is its own blunt instrument.” James Woods

**1980**

Springfield. Well, not quite, Waylon Smithers was at the city limit and there were still several more miles to go, traffic was godawful just how he remembered it, giving him plenty of time to think about just how terrible these last two days had been.

Up until now he couldn’t say that he’d had a particularly miserable life. Growing up in Springfield was, odd, to say the least, his mother was a little distant and his step-father a bastard but compared to some kids still trapped in their squalid hometown he figured he’d turned out alright. Hell, for a few years he’d even say he’d got it good. He had graduated Springfield Central High with a GPA solid enough to get him into his college of choice and away from Springfield with its miles and miles of industrial wasteland and the heavy weight of the nuclear plant’s cooling towers on the horizon. 

Life had since evened out for him, he’d learned fast to suppress most if not all of the traits that he’d caught flak for in grade school and joined a frat in college for good measure. He’d even landed a decent job straight out of college and had been working in Capital City for some time, jumping from big companies to even bigger companies working as an executive assistant at each one, his people pleasing skills and amiable personality had thus far made him a real natural.

“If that’s the case, Waylon,” he thought to himself glancing at his reflection in the dusty rear view mirror, “then how the hell did you get here?” 

The traffic had slowed to a stop again and Smithers cranked the AC, the sun was sluggishly dipping towards the horizon but the heat was still stifling. He unbuttoned his collar and made a vague attempt to fix his uncombed hair, which along with his five o’clock shadow, made him look far more like a bum than a renegade pencil pusher finally tired of his life in the steel and glass skyscrapers of the big city. He’d been trying to push that fantasy on himself for the last two days, anything to mend his wounded ego.

Someone behind him laid on their horn, Smithers grit his teeth and pressed the gas, inching the car forward until it was bumper to bumper with the sedan ahead of him. He pulled a cigarette from the carton in his cupholder and took it between his teeth before flicking the lighter, something which wasn’t easy to do considering the splint on his right ring finger, but if nothing else he was resilient, and just a little addicted. He took a drag, it didn’t really help but it was something to do besides fixate on how much the heat rising from the cooked black asphalt was making him sweat. 

This was meant to be the last time ever he had to visit Springfield, and he supposed it still could be, if it didn’t feel like this sinkhole of a town was sucking him back in. 

He was on his way to clear out the last of his mother’s old furniture from the house he grew up in. After years of needling she’d finally convinced him to find her and his step-father a place in Capital City so that he could visit her more often. His rare trips to his childhood home weren’t entirely because Waylon was avoiding her, he was also avoiding Springfield and his step-father. He realized that she was only trying to reconcile after years of coldness between them, but that hardly made the trips any easier for him.

He’d finally given in and helped them find and buy a house when, just six months ago, he’d been hired by a high-powered law firm and it seemed that was it, he’d finally landed the big job, the one that would provide him a sizable paycheck until he died face down at his desk, finger still on the Rolodex. For a man who craved stability as much as Waylon Smithers did, this was heaven.

And then Franklin happened. Smithers shuddered at the very thought of that mealy mouth, daddy’s boy, frat bro with his perfectly coiffed hair, held together with copious amounts of gel, and a pearly white smile that screamed thousands of dollars in orthodontic work. The man left such a bitter taste in his mouth Smithers almost gagged as though he’d just downed a particularly cheap shot of vodka.

The guy behind him laid in the horn again and Smithers snapped out of his rage induced stupor. The sedan in front had moved at least two car lengths and Smithers pressed the gas gingerly. The sky was beginning to lose its stifling orange hue, a cool hazy purple taking its place, a color that could only be produced by the cocktail of air pollutants that hung over Springfield. The cars churned slowly forward and in the distance he saw the lights on the rims of each cooling tower flicker on before beginning their steady pulse warning any low flying aircraft of their presence.

Smithers took a deep breath and crushed the cigarette into the ashtray. 

Capital City had been an oasis for him in this stagnant pool of middle American life. It was liberal, or at least pretended to be, in the way up and coming cities usually do. He hadn’t really had the time to properly examine this, but it was beside the point, he was happy, comfortable, and part of a thriving gay scene that wouldn’t even be talked about in Springfield. He could leave awkward-high-school-Waylon behind and throw out in-denial-about-my-sexuality-college-Waylon all together. Capital City was his New York!

When the law firm Prince and Sprawling had hired him as their executive assistant he had nearly sold his condo to a nice young couple and bought a house with plenty of space to display his ever-growing collection of Malibu Stacy dolls and, come what may, maybe start a family. That’s what guys in their thirties did or so he’d heard.

But thank god he hadn’t, because then a pair of disgustingly polished wing-tipped shoes had come strolling through his office door and he shook a hand with an ostentatious class ring gleaming on one finger. Franklin Prince.

Who the hell named their kid _Franklin_?

“Big talk coming from a guy named Waylon,” Smithers muttered to himself miserably. 

He actually hadn’t noticed much about the heir to the Prince and Sprawling law firm at first, he wasn’t working for the man after all, he was assistant to his father, John Prince, whom Smithers didn’t think much of either. The whole family was lawyers going back generations with Ivy League diplomas, earned or otherwise bought, adorning every office wall. 

Both men were eerily similar to each other in appearance making Smithers wonder if Franklin’s mother had anything to do with his birth. Wavy dirty blonde hair, although John Prince’s was going gray on the sides, brown eyes and a straight sharp nose to perfectly set off their symmetrical square-jawed faces. 

Smithers shuddered again, in hindsight he should’ve known nothing good could come from people who looked like that with only the barest amount of plastic surgery.

He’d met Franklin for the second time nearly two months later at a company event with his wife, Ava. She was pretty as far as Smithers could tell, although her dyed golden blonde hair made her look a little too similar to Franklin for comfort. 

Smithers had made a feeble attempt at conversation, social situations outside work and his friends from the community were not his strong suit. Especially when his conversation partners came from a class so elite he struggled to find anything he had in common with them besides the fact that they both experienced the weather. Overall he’d come to the conclusion that he’d hardly made an impression on his employer’s son and that had suited him just fine.

The traffic had finally broken up on the freeway, Waylon rolled his window down to catch the cool breeze and filter out the cigarette smoke. Just a few more exits to suburbia!

Four months passed without a hitch and Smithers had been out on the town with friends, it was a relaxing evening, no humid dance clubs just mixers with friends. 

He grimaced as a large bug bounced off his windshield leaving a translucent green splatter behind it. Had he really grown that dull? Mixers with friends? 

He’d wanted to leave his small hometown to escape that prophesied monotony forced on him by a culture centered on heterosexuality and capital gain. And yet, some of those nights out had been no better than Tupperware parties, so many of his friends spent most of those outings networking.

He lit another cigarette, despite all this, that night had sent his perfect stable life into a tailspin. 

Sitting just across the luxe bar, was Franklin, he was chatting with a few much younger men in a booth. His wedding band was gone but the heavy Ivy League class ring still glinted above the knuckles of his right hand.

Smithers had turned away hoping that Franklin hadn’t seen him sitting at the bar. And, a week later, Smithers really thought he’d gotten away with it. He figured even if Franklin had seen him it would’ve been a mistake to reveal it. Though Smithers wasn’t convinced he’d tell Ava about her husband’s appearance at a gay bar, it wasn’t his business. 

He’d spent the last few hours of his drive turning over every decision he’d made that week, wondering if he’d only confronted Franklin or called his wife, shoot, if he’d even spoken to John Prince, maybe the two days that had followed would have been like any other. 

He’d been working late when Franklin sauntered into his office wearing his oiliest smile and no wedding band. 

Waylon balked a little, Franklin was much taller than him and well-built too, it figured that a man so self-obsessed would spend hours at the gym.

Smithers stood, straightening the paperwork he hadn’t yet finished and hurried to put it in his briefcase. His horse sense told him something was very off with Franklin.

“Uh, Mr. Prince, you’re certainly here late, I was just leaving in fact.”

Franklin sneered more than smiled at him. “Oh, Waylon, come on now, ‘Mr. Prince’ is my father,” he emphasized that last word, “call me Franklin.”

Smithers swallowed and smiled, hoping he didn’t look as much like a deer in headlights as he thought he did.

“I really couldn’t, sir.” Smithers tried to sound as calm as possible despite the panic rising in his chest and coolly checked his wristwatch before stepping out from behind his desk. “It’s late, I need to be going. Is there something I can help you with?”

Franklin continued to advance on him. “Can’t two friends just get to know each other a little better?”

Smithers laughed uncomfortably, “I really would like to keep our relationship strictly professional.”

Franklin was much too close for his liking now and Smithers had to lean back to look up at him. He could smell liquor on Franklin’s breath, sharp beneath the blanket of his luxury cologne.

“Oh come on, Waylon, I saw you at that bar, I know what you are.”

Smithers felt anger well up in him, usurping the panic, he felt his lungs tighten with it. “What I am?” he scoffed. “Please step back, Mr. Prince, I need to get home.”

“Waylon, how could you say ‘no’ to me?” Franklin laid a hand over his own chest and feigned an innocent expression. “You wouldn’t want my father to know would you?”

Smithers gritted his teeth. “What about Ava? You’ve got a wife.” 

He grimaced internally, oh good one, Waylon, not cliche at all.

But this actually seemed to stop Franklin for a moment, he dropped his hand and stepped back just an inch or so. Smithers straightened up.

Then the look of shock changed into one of rage. 

“You keep my wife out of this.” Franklin snarled and lunged forward, reaching out for the collar of Waylon’s shirt, Smithers dropped his briefcase and swung upwards instinctively, all those years of schoolyard torment had done wonders for his reflexes.

He could feel a sickening crunch as his sloppy punch connected with Franklin’s nose, the pain ran all the way up to his elbow.

Franklin lurched to the side clasping his face in his hands and groaned. Smithers took his chance and fled the office, leaving his briefcase and coat behind.

He didn’t bother with the elevators fearing that Franklin would be bearing down on him at any moment now. He slammed open the heavy steel doors of the fire exit, rushed down the stairs, and made a frantic bid for his car in the lot. His heart just about stopped when he realized his keys were still in his coat pocket in the office.

“Waylon, you fucking idiot,” he muttered to himself. He glanced behind him and, seeing no one, walked to the side of his car, away from the doors to the office building where hopefully no one could see him, and slumped against it. 

The adrenaline was wearing off and he looked down at his right hand, his ring finger was already swollen and his forearm was on fire. He didn’t dare flex the offending digit, but it felt broken and hung at an odd angle. Waylon felt sick.

He sat on the asphalt for what felt like an hour listening to people from other floors leaving the building and driving off before he stood, creeping across the lot and back up the four flights of stairs to the floor he worked on. He could only hope that Franklin’s car had been among the ones he’d heard while huddled beside the passenger side door. All the lights were off now save for emergency lights near the fire exits. He could hear the buzz of the fluorescent bulbs above him and it set his hair on end.

He peered into his office but saw no one, he did however see a spray of dark blood across the carpet and a few drops that led past him and out the door. Waylon breathed out, relieved, but when he fished his car keys out of his coat pocket he held them in a closed fist, the jagged metal edge protruding from between his fingers. He couldn’t do much with his left hand but he figured it was better than nothing if it happened that Franklin was still lurking around, drunk on pain and the whiskey Smithers knew he kept in his executive office.

Luckily Smithers was back down the stairs and to his car in record time, he sped out of the parking lot feeling more nauseous than ever with the bright streetlights whipping by him and the pain in his finger increasing with every throb. He thanked his lucky stars again when he saw an exit sign for the ER on the highway and pulled off.

The clinic was quiet, just a few drunk college kids waiting their turn. Smithers filled out the form for the nurse, though it was almost illegible. By now he could barely close his right hand around the pen. He paused for a moment at the section for insurance information, the company provided health plans but he was certain he didn’t have a job anymore. He sighed heavily and filled it out anyways, it was the least they could do for his troubles.

He didn’t have to wait long before another nurse took him to a room and handed him off again. This particular nurse, a short young man, took Waylon’s right hand gently and turned it over a few times. He lifted the swollen ring finger and Waylon nearly cried out.

“Well,” he glanced at his chart, “Mr. Smithers, it looks like you might have a fracture here. We’ll do a few x-rays and getchya in a splint. In the meantime I’ll get you some painkillers so at least it won’t feel as bad as it looks!”

“Thanks,” Smithers muttered.

“Says you punched a guy?” The nurse said, reading the form Smithers had filled out again. “I’d hate to see him!” The nurse laughed and Smithers tried to fake a smile despite his blood running cold at the mention of the night’s events.

“Ah, yeah.” 

The nurse smiled back and left the room. 

Waylon busied himself by picking at the well pilled blanket they’d given him and analyzing the pain scale taped to the white cinderblock wall. He decided he was at a seven after mentally filing through each of his childhood injuries, luckily there had been very few. The worst pain he’d ever been in was from the corrective orthodontic gear he’d worn through middle school. A metal cage had been installed on the roof of his mouth to expand his palate and it had gouged four deep indents into his tongue, he’d had to wear it for a year. It gave him a lisp, which wasn’t exactly a boon to his social standing. He’d been accused of certain leanings since elementary, but they really took off in middle school. By the time he’d reached freshman year there was no way to squelch them anymore. 

The doctor entered and interrupted his thoughts, he was led down the hall and given a lead jacket in the x-ray room where the entire process took less time than he had spent waiting in the ER. 

The short nurse from earlier took him back to the examining room and gave him a dose of a painkiller and a small paper cup of water. Waylon swallowed these gratefully before the doctor returned with the images and a splint.

“It’s not a terrible fracture, Mr. Smithers,” she said, she looked tired and Smithers hoped for her sake it was the end of her shift soon. He winced as she cinched the splint around his finger. She scribbled down a prescription, tore it off the pad, and handed it to him. He eyeballed it quickly, hydrocodone-acetaminophen, then stuffed it in his pocket. 

“That splint will need to stay on about three weeks, but get in touch with your primary care doctor and make sure to do the follow-up.” She smiled, “You’re all set then, have a good night.”

Smithers smiled politely back. “Thanks,” he said and headed out of the room, through the lobby and out into the cool night. 

The drive home had been easy, the painkiller took the edge off of his anxiety and by the time he made it up to his third floor apartment he was too drowsy to even worry about the next day. He undressed and collapsed on his bed, only to snap awake when the alarm blared at six. Waylon groaned, he hadn’t dreamed, in fact he felt as though he’d barely slept and now there was a dull pain spreading across his hand. 

The previous night came rushing back at him and for a moment he thought of drawing all the curtains and spending that day under the covers. He reached for his pager on the nightstand, not a single message. 

He’d half expected a curt note telling him he’d been fired and that they’d be mailing him the contents of his office. Smithers had sent a few of those in his time to particularly unruly executives who couldn’t be trusted not to meltdown if allowed into the building again and while he knew he wouldn’t do such a thing he was pretty sure Franklin Prince wouldn’t want to face him again. The man’s ego had to be bruised even if only slightly, and if it wasn’t, Waylon had no doubt his nose would be.

He took little comfort in the thought of Franklin’s artificially bronzed skin swollen and discolored. That was only evidence of what had taken place, like the splint on his own finger. 

Waylon swung his legs off the bed and sat there on the edge trying to compose himself. There was a bottle of vodka in the freezer, for a moment he entertained the idea of downing a few shots to steel his resolve, he imagined himself swaggering into the office, drunk and triumphant, more than ready to face whatever flimsy excuses Franklin’s attorneys had for HR.

The fantasy dissipated, he didn’t have the stomach for vodka, he still needed to visit to the pharmacy, get his prescription, and drive to work. He stood, motivated mostly the pain in his hand, and shuffled his way into the kitchen. He put on a pot of coffee to brew while he showered and dressed in clean clothes. Khaki slacks and an old argyle sweater, more casual than his typical uniform of pressed trousers and a button down shirt but he could care less what people thought of him today.

He mindlessly performed his morning tasks of grooming before he meandered back to the kitchen, took the cleanest thermos from his sink and poured the day’s coffee into it along with a generous amount of sugar. No cream, he’d need all the caffeine he could get. 

He tried to impose that confidence he’d daydreamed about on himself, leaving the condo with just his thermos, keys, wallet, and the prescription he was given the night before. Not that he really had anything else that he needed to take with him, his coat was still in his office along with his briefcase and all the papers that had spilled out of it the night before, littering the carpet along with the dark spots of blood. He wondered what people would think when they walked past the glass pane of his office door to their cubicles and saw the wreck inside. It would be the source of water-cooler gossip for sure, until the girl from HR, their trusted mole, let them in on the story.

Smithers didn’t bother getting in his car for his trip to the pharmacy just around the corner. The doors chimed when he stepped in and he made his way to the back of the store where the pharmacist’s counter was. He slid the bored looking balding man his scrip and flashed his ID. 

The pharmacist scrutinized both before saying, “Insurance card?”

Smithers pulled it from his wallet and the pharmacist fixed his glazed over eyes on the computer screen while he plunked his fingers over the keyboard, entering the information.

Smithers stood there a minute, watching the reflection of the screen scroll by in the pharmacist’s thick glasses. Finally the man looked back at him. “We’ll call you when it’s ready,” he said.

Smithers nodded and gathered up his cards. He wandered up and down the aisles for twenty minutes, before he went to the front of the pharmacy, the man here looked nearly as tired and miserable as the pharmacist in the back, but he offered up a vaguely polite smile when Smithers came to the counter.

“Uh, two packs of Camels, blue,” he said. 

The cashier gave an affirmative grunt and took the two packs from behind the counter, he punched a few keys on the register.

“Two bucks twelve cents,” he said after a few seconds and Waylon counted out three ones from his wallet. 

The cashier took them and the register opened with a chime and a violent lurch. The man quietly counted out the change while Smithers pocketed the packs. 

“Eighty eight cents, need a receipt?” The cashier dropped the coins into Smithers’ open palm.

“No, thanks,” he replied and shoved the change in his pants pocket along with the cigarettes. 

He turned away and once again began pacing the aisles turning over what he’d say to whoever confronted him once he got into the office. Finally he heard his name muttered over the store’s intercom, it muted whatever pop tune had been playing over the speakers momentarily, before cutting out again, allowing the singer to finish her schmaltzy verse unaware that she’d been interrupted.

He hurried to the pharmacist’s counter, glad to finally be free of the claustrophobic store with its shelving units looming over him, the cheap plastic products in their brightly colored packaging stark against the grimy off white racks encouraging him to buy buy buy. 

The pharmacist slid the white paper package across the counter to him. “Here you go, uh, there’s a small co-pay,” he said stiffly.

Smithers took the packet and handed him his credit card. The pharmacist punched it expertly and without preamble tore off the receipt slip, handing it to him along with the card.

“Take one pill every six hours with a meal,” he instructed, parroting off the label stuck to the pill bottle no doubt.

“Thanks,” Waylon said.

The pharmacist shrugged in reply and turned away. 

Waylon left the pharmacy and rounded the block to the parking lot beside his apartment complex. He climbed into his car and shut the door before tearing open the white paper and removing the orange bottle. He popped open the cap and took a pill along with a swig of coffee, it was near enough to a meal for now.

He started his car and as he turned onto the street he flipped to a news broadcast hoping that something, anything, a stock market crash, ten car pileup, hell, a diplomatic incident, had happened that was interesting enough to take his mind off whatever he might face at work. He was sorely disappointed and instead shucked a pack of Camels from the clear plastic film and burned through two cigarettes in an effort to keep his mind occupied. 

The drive went by too fast and the elevator ride even faster. When he stepped out into the office’s entrance the receptionist pressed her headset and whispered something into it while glancing furtively up at him. Smithers shivered involuntarily.

He strode past her and she offered up a weak greeting. 

The fresh early morning sunshine blared into the office building with its floor to ceiling windows and gleamed off the egg-white veneer that covered almost every particle board desk and cubicle. The light was overwhelming, Smithers squinted against it, taking a moment to adjust. Most employees hadn’t arrived just yet and those who had didn’t pay him any mind but before he could make it to his office he was flanked by the imposing figure of John Prince.

He wore a grey three-piece suit and his most amiable smile. “Mr. Smithers,” he said, flashing a ribbon of white teeth, “Can I see you in my office for a moment?”

Smithers felt his heart drop into his gut. “Of course, sir,” he said as strongly as he could muster and followed John Prince to his office.

The blinds were drawn but Waylon was certain of who could be found just beyond the stylish glass walls.

Mr. Prince held the door open for him as he stepped inside, Smithers turned his head and didn’t hide his scowl when he saw Franklin leaning on the mahogany bar where his father kept his fine crystal glasses and scotch for his business associates. 

Franklin looked worse than he’d imagined, despite being dressed to the nines in a dark blue suit, clearly the Princes were trying to make an impression while Smithers just tried not to think how awkward he must look in his dopey sweater, one hand clutching his dented thermos. A deep purple bruise hung below Franklin’s left eye, slicing upwards in the curve of his eye socket, an ugly crescent moon. His nose was swollen, the skin was tight and shiny where it wasn’t covered by a gauze bandage. He’d have to make a trip under the knife if he ever wanted it straight again. 

Imagining it hadn’t made Smithers feel better before but, damn, did it ever feel good when he saw the aftermath of his punch in the flesh.

John Prince sat down in a leather chair in front of his desk, he regarded Smithers coolly.

“Well, I expect you know why you’re here.”

Smithers grit his teeth and faced John Prince. “Yes, sir, I do.”

“Mr. Smithers, we don’t want to make a fuss about this, and I’m sure you want the same.”

Smithers understood his tone all too well, he felt anger flare up in him. This was the way a principal had spoken to him, or the way his mother had, the way Franklin Prince had just the night before, all of them implying that he’d always want to hide the part of his life that made him so unsavory to upstanding citizens. Implying that he was better off for doing so.

“You’re a good man, an excellent employee, and we’d hate to lose you,” John Prince continued on. “I don’t see any reason we can’t settle this in a way that benefits us all.”

Smithers was dying for a cigarette, he could feel Franklin’s cold glare on his neck. “What do you suggest, sir?”

Mr. Prince held up his right hand, palm facing Smithers, some kind of gesture of power or deference he’d picked up at a seminar for high-powered men such as himself, Smithers held back a grimace. John Prince’s class ring shimmered, a familial trait like their dark blond hair. 

“I think we should just let bygones be bygones, there’s no reason for you to lose your job or for me to lose a valuable executive assistant. And you are coming up on a pay raise.” 

That was the first time Smithers was hearing of such a raise.

“But, I do need something from you, Mr. Smithers, a non-disclosure agreement, and just so we know things are squared away, an apology.” He administered these demands clinically.

Smithers tried not to physically recoil. “Sir, I don’t know what your son has told you but-“

“Mr. Smithers,” John Prince interrupted him, “I assure you that he has told me everything.” He leaned forward in his chair, Franklin stayed behind him, his face grim and unmoving. Smithers couldn’t see even the vaguest hint of embarrassment in his eyes. “But the fact remains that this unpleasantness has had its consequences. I just want assurance, by way of your apology, that such things won’t be mentioned in the company of others.”

Smithers chewed the inside of his cheek. “I won’t apologize,” he said, feeling as though the wind had been knocked out of him. He lamented not drinking that vodka, his voice sounded weak despite his fury. His left hand ached from gripping the warm metal thermos so tightly, he was sure his knuckles were white.

John Prince sighed and sat back in his chair. There was a long pause before he spoke again. “You’re fired, I know you’ll find that unfair, I do as well, but I’d advise you against a lawsuit, I just don’t see things going favorably for you.” 

Smithers didn’t feel much of anything, he figured it was the shock. Franklin didn’t speak a word. 

“If you have anything in your office that you need urgently, feel free to get it,” John Prince said, his tone unreasonably calm. “And then you can go home, we’ll send the rest of your things to you.” 

He stood and stepped towards Smithers extending his hand, Smithers felt as though he was watching his body from above when he stuck out his own arm and shook John Prince’s hand. 

“It was a pleasure to have you here.” John Prince said, perfectly affecting sincerity. 

Smithers dipped his head just a bit in a nod. “Yes, sir,” he mumbled before he turned away, opened the door and stepped out into the main office space. The patter of fingers over keyboards didn’t stop, there was a tinny ring every so often from the direction of the receptionist’s desk, and again no one looked at him as he wove between the cubicles to his office. 

The door was open now, stuck that way with a wedge kicked beneath it. Smithers stood in the frame and stared at his desk, there wasn’t a single personal effect in it besides a few houseplants, his spilled briefcase and his coat hanging on the wall hook. He crouched down and picked up his briefcase, he checked the inner pocket to see his floppy disk with various personal and work files on it. He took it from the floor, leaving the scattered papers where they were. He stood and pulled his coat from the hook, he didn’t care if the plants came back to him, they could wither in this office for all he cared, under the florescent lights and perfectly maintained temperature control. 

In the cramped and over warm elevator he felt nauseous and when he stepped out from the lobby doors he was sick on the grass where stubby decorative shrubs poked out in a humane effort to break up the concrete. It was black and watery, coffee and nothing else, he hoped he’d absorbed most of the painkiller in the hour before. He spat once, embarrassed by his weak stomach, and hoped no one saw. 

Back in his car he lit another cigarette with trembling hands. For a minute or two he thought he’d cry, but he didn’t, even when he suddenly realized that his parents would arrive from Springfield that evening and the frustration at his situation became so great he sat in a near catatonic state for an hour in his car chain-smoking.

His lighter finally gave out a pack and a half in, Waylon figured it was for the best. He started his car and drove home, his mouth cotton dry, the lukewarm and acrid coffee did nothing to soothe it. He was still halfway out of his body when he climbed the steps to his condo, he could see his mother’s face already, wide shocked eyes, wondering what the hell he did to bring this all upon himself, and his step-father’s lipless frown and silent judgement right beside her.

In the condo he knew he couldn’t face them, not today at least. His mind was a whirlwind, every thought urging him to go faster, hurry and get out of this apartment, this town. Waylon jotted down a quick message for his parents on a torn piece of paper which he taped to the outside of his front door and fetched a fresh lighter from the small drawer in his kitchen. 

With the lighter in his pocket he stripped off the sweater, now soaked through with the smell of smoke, in his bedroom and changed into an old comfortable button down before he stuffed a duffel bag with a few days worth of clothes for a stay in Springfield. Anywhere but Capital City.

He never thought he’d live to see the day he’d rather be in Springfield.

And now here he was, pulling into the drive of his childhood home, and even with all the lights off and the blinds pulled shut, it looked like a refuge. He felt as though he’d been lost at sea and even though he’d steered on through the fog, he’d ended up back at the port where he’d started. He couldn’t tell if he felt relief or a cold, desperate sadness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this might be a bit of a weird beginning, but it just grew out of the story that I’d written so far. Promise that the characters will all be familiar from now on. 
> 
> Cigarette prices were so low 40 years ago but it’s hard to find a specific price :/ Forgive me if it’s not quite right! 
> 
> Thank you for reading, please leave a comment if you can :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The invention of the ship was also the invention of the shipwreck, and we are all here collectively alone, sinking. - Paul Virilio

The house was dark and barren. Waylon didn’t have much nostalgia for it, most of his childhood memories felt distant and unemotional. He didn’t turn on the lights and shuffled over to the dingy over-stuffed sofa against the wall, he collapsed onto it, propping his feet up on the armrest. On the side table above his head the landline sat beside an ancient answering machine, the red light announced there were twelve missed calls.

Waylon sighed and reached over, batting the decrepit plastic handset over with a clatter before managing to lift it from the table. He dialed his mother’s new Capital City number.

The phone rang twice before it was picked up.

“Hi, mom.”

“Waylon,” was the gruff reply. He cringed.

“Hey, dad.” He muttered, “Can you get mom? I think she’s been trying to call me.”

There was a dismissive grunt on the other end of the line, “Yeah, I’ll get her.”

Waylon could hear his step-father’s hand close over the handset before a few muffled shouts.

It wasn’t long until the line crackled again.

“Waylon! I’ve been calling and you didn’t pick up! We went to your apartment and got your note, why did you leave for Springfield? You were supposed to move us in today!” She didn’t sound angry, just confused and worried, Waylon felt guilty.

“Some work stuff came up and I just had to leave...”

“Are you in Springfield for work? Couldn’t you have called? I hadn’t heard from you for three days, but I just assumed you were busy.” There was a pause that Smithers couldn’t quite fill before his mother spoke again. “I thought we were getting better.” He winced, that sounded accusatory. 

She had every right to be mad at him. There had been years after he moved to Capital City when he only called on holidays and birthdays, even a period of three years when they hadn’t seen each other’s faces. Recently she’d gone to therapy and part of this had been trying to connect with him in a way she never had throughout this childhood. 

Growing up Waylon felt he hadn’t so much been raised by her but merely watched.

And while he couldn’t blame her entirely for that, she’d been devastated by his father’s disappearance and his step-father was domineering with very certain ideas on how a family should be run and a child reared, he’d held onto quite a bit of resentment. Especially when, after years of disinterest in his life as a whole, she became obsessed with his choice of partners. 

And now here he was, throwing the progress they had slowly managed to make back into her face by suddenly disappearing with only a curt note taped to his apartment door.

“Mom...” He groaned, “I got fired and-“

“Fired! Why?”

“It’s- It’s really really complicated.” His finger was throbbing again, he needed to take a painkiller. “I’m going to clear out your house here, and then I’ll come back and help you get sorted.”

“Waylon, I just don’t understand, you just got that job! What did you do?”

He grimaced. “Nothing! Look, you and dad get settled, I’ll be there soon.”

There was a long silence, in his mind Waylon could see the blank expression on her face, it was seared into his memory, the way she’d stare at him across the dinner table when she was disappointed. Like when he got caught in high school sharing a cigarette with one of the boys on the gymnastics team or when he told her he wasn’t going to the community college and was leaving Springfield altogether instead.

“Alright, Waylon,” she finally said. “I love you.”

“I love you too, mom.” He took the phone from his ear and hung up. 

He laid there for a while trying to find patterns in the popcorn ceiling before he gave up and heaved himself off the couch.

He grabbed his overnight bag from the floor and took it into the bathroom. Waylon took out the orange pill bottle, his toothbrush, toothpaste, and a small plastic cup he’d had the foresight to bring. He filled the cup with water and threw it back along with one of the white oblong pills. 

He brushed his teeth before wandering down the narrow hall of the ranch style house, glancing into the bedrooms as he passed, in his own room he found a scratchy wool blanket labeled “American Red Cross” and a pillow so flat it could barely lift his head an inch from the mattress. His mother must have set them out before they’d left for Capital City.

Waylon stared at the bed morosely, there were no sheets covering the worn mattress that had sat in the room for twenty odd years. The pill hadn’t made him sleepy but at least he couldn’t feel the pain in his hand anymore. 

He wanted a beer. When he’d seen his reflection under the yellow bathroom light he’d looked sickly, his hair greasy and uncombed. He dropped his bag again and went back to the bathroom. He stared into the mirror at the bags under his eyes highlighted by the curved silver wire of his glasses and ran a hand through his hair to tame it mildly. He already looked like a barfly and he figured there was a seedy enough place in this town where he’d look like a regular. 

He left the dark house, making sure to lock up behind him and climbed back into his car. It didn’t take him long after he pulled out of the neighborhood to spot a dingy hole-in-the-wall. He pulled into the lot beside it, tires crunching over shattered beer bottles on the asphalt, and parked. 

He grabbed his lighter and cigarettes and stepped out of the car. The air reeked of industrial waste and gasoline and the temperature was rapidly dropping, he shivered in his light dress shirt. He crossed the lot and stepped into the dim bar. It was smoky and had the distinct tang of sweat and alcohol. 

Someone turned their head, and Smithers was stunned to see a face he recognized. 

“He-ey,” the man drawled, “it’s old Waylon! Good to see ya, buddy!” He was as slack-jawed and passive as Waylon remembered him, he’d always liked Lenny in a way, he was slow on the uptake but generally kind and not nearly as excitable as his schoolmates. 

“Lenny?” Waylon walked over to the bar and set his hand on the bar stool to lift himself onto it, he snatched it away when he realized the seat was wet and sticky. He grimaced and wiped his hand on the side of his trousers before sitting on what appeared to be a cleaner stool beside it.

Lenny elbowed a balding man with the beginnings of a comb over who sat beside him. “Hey, Homer, look who it is, Waylon!”

Homer looked up from where it appeared he was counting peanuts on the bar. He stared at Waylon for a moment before a dim recognition crossed his face.

“Waylon? Oh! From high school! It’s been a long time didn’t you drop out or something?”

Waylon’s brow knitted, “I went to college.”

Homer seemed to think on this a moment, “Noo,” he intoned, “I don’t think so.”

Smithers sighed, “I moved and went to college.”

“Oh right! Capital City, fan-cy!” Lenny cried out, “Hey, Moe! Look who we got here!”

Moe Szyslak stuck his head out from the backroom. “Well looky here, it’s college boy, ya get that degree?”

“Uh, yeah.” 

Moe sauntered out from behind the door, he was hunched now, shorter than Waylon remembered him. His pug nose hadn’t changed though, Waylon recalled thinking it was cute in high school, but by now it had lost its charm, possibly due to the heavy dark circles like bruises that sat beneath his beady eyes.

“Whaddya drinkin’?” Moe asked as he wiped a mug with a stained bar rag.

“Duff Lite, I guess.” Smithers stuck a cigarette in his mouth and lit it while he waited. 

“How ya been, Waylon?” Lenny asked in earnest. 

Smithers frowned around the cigarette. “Could be better.” 

Moe slid him the mug of beer and an ashtray half filled with peanut shells and half with cigarette butts. 

“Those things still gettin’ ya in trouble?” He said in a mocking tone, gesturing to the cigarette Waylon held between his fingers as he took a sip of near tasteless beer. 

He scowled at Moe over the rim of the mug. 

“Leave him alone, Moe,” Lenny pleaded.

Moe scoffed, “Guy thinks he’s a big shot with his college degree, not like us working men, right, Homer?” 

Homer was lost again in counting peanuts. 

Moe huffed and swiped the air in front of him. 

“Right, Barn?” He asked the drunk with his chin on the bar. Waylon pulled a face when he recognized Barney Gumble, who was once top of their class, now he looked as if he’d spent the last ten years in this bar.

“Right, Moe,” he replied though Waylon doubted he had any idea what Moe had said.

“What’s it like up in Capital City?” Lenny asked, leaning forward excitedly, “What kinda job ya got?”

“Capital City is,” he considered this a moment, he hadn’t even said goodbye to any of his friends when he’d left or told them about what had happened with Franklin. He didn’t really care enough to either. Here, here he was already catching flak from Moe Szyslak over something that had happened over a decade ago, hell, these people, soused as they may be, talked to him as if he’d seen them only yesterday. 

“It’s different,” he said finally, “And I lost my job.” He wished he hadn’t mentioned that, it made him feel pathetic. 

Moe snorted, “The bigger they are the harder they fall, don’t youse come lookin’ for work ‘round here, ain’t got no use for a narc.”

“I wasn’t.” Waylon muttered.

Lenny was looking at him sadly, “Oh that’s too bad, Waylon. Say, you should apply at the plant! Burnsie just fired another one of his assistants.” He shuddered, “Wasn’t pretty though.”

“He-ey,” Homer whined, “You didn’t tell me that, I need a job too, you know? I thought we were friends, Lenny!”

“Oh c’mon, Homer, you don’t want that job, Burns would fire you in a heartbeat. Wait until somethin’ on the floor opens up! Where he can’t see you!”

“Aw, okay,” Homer looked away, dejected, Waylon felt for him, he’d heard through the grapevine that Homer had a kid now, he couldn’t imagine jobs here paid that well.

“Thanks, Lenny, but I’m supposed to be headed back to Capital City tomorrow night, I’m just here to clear out my mother’s old house.”

Lenny shrugged, “Suit yourself, but me an’ Carl’ll put in a good word for ya! It’s a cushy job if you can put up with old Burns.”

“He’s really still running the plant?” Smithers asked incredulously, his father had worked for the man decades ago, before he’d vanished.

“Yeah, can you believe?” Lenny shoved his mug forward, “Hey, Moe, can I get another?”

“Shore.”

Smithers watched Moe fill up the empty glass as he drank from his own. Burns had to be well over eighty by now, he’d seen him at job fairs and a few community events during his time in Springfield, but never interacted with him. His mother would become despondent for a few days after seeing Burns on the street or even just a photo of him in a magazine or newspaper. She never said anything to Waylon about Burns, but the implication was obvious, stay away. 

Waylon took another sip of beer before blotting out his cigarette in the ashtray. He lit another, Lenny was balancing peanuts on Barney with Homer and Moe shot him glances from the corner of his eye every five minutes. Waylon ignored that.

After he’d graduated college he’d become intent on finding out what exactly his mother knew about his father’s sudden disappearance. He’d pressed her for answers when they’d met to celebrate his graduation, things soured quickly.

“He’s dead.” 

She’d stared at him with wide frightened eyes when she’d said that. His step-father, who was sitting across from them in the armchair of their Springfield home, stood suddenly and went into the kitchen. Smithers heard the pop of a beer can tab and he didn’t return.

“Mom,” Waylon sighed, “why would you say something like that? If he’d died, wouldn’t the police have investigated?” 

“He wouldn’t leave me and not come back, I know he’s dead, he was a good man.” She’d been leaning forward from the couch, but now she huddled back into the cushions, gripping the soft green polyester of the sofa’s arm, her fingers indenting the fabric.

“Why are you defending him? He left you.” Waylon knew he sounded angry, but it was hard to see her like this, worn down after over two decades with no word from her first husband.

“You didn’t know him.” She said with a vicious tone, she jerked her head towards the kitchen. “He never knew him either, but I did. And he wouldn’t ever leave me.” Her voice softened a bit there and she looked away signaling that she was finished with the conversation.

He’d finished his beer and caught Moe’s eye. “Another?” He said, he wasn’t feeling much of anything and wished he’d ordered something stronger. 

Moe refilled the mug and passed it back to him silently. 

Waylon took a sip before looking across the bar again. “Hey, Lenny,” he called out.

Lenny turned to him happily, “What’s up, Waylon? Wanna see how many peanuts we can stack on Barney? We’re up to a new record! Carl’s gonna be pissed he missed this!”

Waylon laughed to himself, maybe he was feeling the effects of the alcohol, or maybe Lenny’s good nature was just rubbing off on him. “I’m okay, thanks. Hey, uh, you really think that assistant job is good?”

Lenny seemed to ponder this a moment. “Well, like I said you’d have to put up with Burns all day, but he’s got tons of assistants running around doing jobs for him, and I think the pay is pretty good, can’t be any worse than most of the jobs there, even mine.”

“Can’t be worse than my last job,” Waylon muttered. 

“Hm?”

“Don’t worry about it. Here,” Smithers took a pen from his pocket and a ragged napkin from the untidy pile of them on counter beside him, embossed with the name of some fast food chain, clearly pilfered by Moe as a way to keep operating costs down. He scribbled down his mother’s landline number and passed it over the bar to Lenny. 

“I’ll be in town for a bit, just have them call there.”

“You got it, buddy,” Lenny said as he pocketed the napkin. “It’d be fun to have you around! Like high school again!”

Waylon gave him a weak smile. “Yeah.” He figured Lenny didn’t think much about high school or else remembered it differently than he did. Waylon didn’t hold much of a grudge against Barney or even Homer, kids did stupid stuff, they’d grown up now, or at least he had. He stared miserably at Homer and drank from his mug, vague school yard popularity could take you only so far it seemed. And besides, staying in Springfield was hardly a forgone conclusion, he had a list of references miles long in Capital City, Prince and Sprawling had done all they could to him, there wouldn’t be anymore retaliation as long as he kept his head down. At least he hoped so. 

The bottom of the mug was coming up faster than he’d expected it to, he was really starting to feel something now. He’d eaten hours ago, just a greasy drive-thru burger from some place off the highway. It was hardly doing anything to soak up the alcohol. It occurred to him now that two beers and a heavy dose of painkillers was not the best cocktail on a near empty stomach. 

He needed to get home before this got much worse. 

“Moe,” he called out, the bartender turned to him. Waylon fumbled with his wallet and pulled out a ten, tossing it on the bar top. “Thanks,” he muttered and slid off the bar stool. 

“Yeah, shore.” Was the gruff reply.

Waylon felt stable enough on his feet, but too buzzed for his liking, luckily the fresh cold air outside sobered him up just enough that he felt he could drive. He didn’t want to stick around this neighborhood too long trying to catch a cab.

As he muddled his way from the bar back to his car someone caught up to him.

“Hey, Waylon.”

He turned to see Moe, who’d left his post behind the bar to follow him out into the now nearly freezing night.

“Look,” Moe started, rubbing the back of his neck, “I’m sorry fer what I said in there, I know you ain’t a bad guy.”

Waylon shrugged, “It’s fine, Moe.” He continued on to his car, well aware that Moe was still following closely behind him. 

He opened the driver’s side door and sat down, one leg still hanging out of the car. The weak interior light illuminated Moe’s face as he stood beside the car. Smithers stared up at him, Moe was fidgeting with his rag, face contorted in what almost looked like pain.

“Waylon-“ he coughed, “You don’t look so good, you okay to drive?”

“I’m fine,” Waylon sighed, “Do you need something?”

“Look, I didn’t wanna make things awkward in the bar, but, I just wanted to say sorry fer what I said aboutcha in school, and the way, well the way we left things.”

Waylon was surprised Moe even thought twice about high school. Moe had teased him often, called him names, but Waylon had barely thought about those things in years.

“Uh, I don’t think _we_ left things badly.” He didn’t really understand what Moe had meant, maybe there was more to the bullying than he had realized, but he wasn’t in the mood to ask. 

“Good, good,” Moe said, clearly relieved, “I was just thinkin’ if you ain’t feelin’ good on accounta the beer, you can stay at my place. Or let me drive ya home?”

Waylon tensed. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate that but-“

“Ah, nah nah, forget I said anything,” Moe interrupted, waving his hand in front of him.

“It’s not a good time, Moe, that’s all.” Waylon leaned forward a bit towards him. “It’s nothing personal.”

“I get it, I get it.” Moe sounded flustered. “But if you need anything at all, just ask, alright?”

“Actually,” Waylon said before he could think better of it, “think you could remind Lenny about setting up that interview for me with Burns?”

Moe finally met his eyes. “You really thinkin’ about stayin’? I thought youse were too good for this old town.” He was prickly again, Smithers preferred him like that.

“I think you’ve got some weird ideas about me.” He replied. “If I get the job I might stay, things are, well, things are not great in Capital City.” He looked away, “Maybe it’s good if I get away for a while.”

“I gotcha.” 

Waylon had the distinct feeling he didn’t at all.

“I’ll remind Lenny, youse have a good night.”

“Thanks, Moe.” He swung the door shut and started the car as Moe stepped away and walked slowly back to the bar. As Waylon pulled out of the lot he caught a glimpse of Moe watching him from over his shoulder. Waylon turned back into the street and drove on.

Springfield had always been odd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much shorter than I would’ve liked this chapter to be but I’m a bit sick and updates have been slow so :p Thank you so much for reading and comments are so appreciated!


	3. Chapter 3

He woke up with a start, sprawled across his mattress, his head hurt and his finger felt even worse. Waylon sat up and looked down at himself, he had on only his boxers and one sock, the rest of his clothes were crumpled beside the bed. He couldn’t remember getting home, but, after giving himself a once over, he could only find a few bruises on his shins, he supposed from stumbling over furniture.

He managed to stand and shuffled his way to the bathroom again to take another pill. Splashing his face with cold water he was relieved to find that he wasn’t too nauseous, and he wondered if he’d thrown up while blackout. If he had there wasn’t any evidence in the bathroom.

Stepping back into the hallway, he glanced into the living room at the sagging green couch. He figured it was pointless to take a shower before moving the furniture, despite how disgusting he felt with the smell of stale beer and sweat clinging to him, since the news had promised another hot day and the dull rumble of the aging AC unit warned that it would do little to combat the heat.

He changed clothes in the bedroom, pulling on an old t-shirt and sweatpants and by the time he’d finished eating the crushed granola bar he’d found in a pocket of his duffel bag the pill had taken effect, his head and finger were no longer throbbing. 

Waylon glanced at the dusty wall clock in the kitchen and was even more encouraged that today would be better when he saw that it was only nine. He went to the front door and opened it as far as it would go before propping a kitchen chair against it to prevent it from swinging shut.

Turning to see his car in the drive he was stunned to find the driver’s side door was wide open, he crossed the neatly trimmed lawn, his stepfather a stickler until the end, to it. Leaning inside the car he was relieved to find that he’d taken his keys out of the ignition and aside from a little condensation on the interior there wasn’t anything damaged, his stereo remained intact. Waylon sighed and stood up, he slammed the car door, frustrated at himself for driving in such a state that he hadn’t even shut it after presumably tumbling out.

He circled the old sedan but there didn’t seem to be any new damage. He regretted turning down Moe’s offer of a ride but still shuddered when he thought of having to climb into that pickup truck with deep holes rusted into its chassis. Even more worrisome was the idea of having to make conversation with a person who, despite his occupation, seemed to know little about social contracts.

Waylon wandered across the yard and back into the house in a bit of a daze now that he realized just how intoxicated he had been. He tried to push the thoughts of that all aside and focus again on clearing the house room by room. 

He started with the couch, removing its cushions did little to lessen the weight but after forty-five minutes of a frustrating struggle he finally managed to get it out the door and to the curb. Tomorrow the neighborhood was picking up bulk trash, he thanked his lucky stars he wouldn’t have to take all the furniture to the dump himself. He was already sweating and his back ached when he stepped over the threshold and took note of what he had left to move.

There was the side table with the answering machine in the living room, a shaky dining table in the kitchen with its four chairs, the twin bed and mattress in his room, and the queen bed in his parents’ room. Waylon took off his glasses before wiping his forehead with the front of his shirt, he’d move the dining table next.

The table and chairs were easy enough but the queen mattress proved to be a bitch to balance on its side and drag over the plush pinkish carpet. As he pulled it into the living room the phone began to ring. Waylon leaned the mattress carefully on the doorframe between the hall and the living room and hurried to answer it.

“Hello?” He said, hoping he didn’t sound quite as breathless as he felt.

“Hello, I’m calling for Waylon Smithers?” It was a woman’s voice on the other line, emotionless and professional.

“Speaking.”

“Hi, I’m calling from Springfield Nuclear Power Plant, an employee here gave me your number and mentioned that you’d be qualified for an assistant position?” 

“Oh, right, Lenny, yes I’d like to come interview,”

“Good, good,” she said, he could hear her plucking at keys on a computer, “we don’t have a resumé for you, but if you could bring one with you to your interview?”

“Of course,” he replied.

“Wonderful, so could you come in at five o’clock?”

“Today?” Smithers sputtered.

“Yes, I know it’s short notice, but Mr. Burns wants a replacement as soon as possible and, well, to be frank, I don’t have any other resumés at the moment. Mr. Leonard mentioned you’d worked for Prince and Sprawling?”

Smithers flinched. “Yes.”

“So you’re experienced, I’d really like to speak with you today, could you come in?”

Waylon crossed the living room, mindful of the phone’s cord, and peered into the kitchen to glance at the clock. It was ten thirty. 

“Yes, I could do that,”

“Great! I’ll see you then in that case, when you get here tell security at the gate that you have an interview with Helaine Baumer, I’ll let them know you’re coming, and they’ll tell you how to get to the administration offices.”

“Thank you, Ms. Baumer, I’ll see you soon,” he said, feeling even more out of breath than when he’d started the conversation.

“See you soon,” she replied and promptly hung up.

Smithers was shaky when he put the handset back down in its cradle. He hadn’t fully expected a call from the power plant, certainly not this soon anyways. He realized that he didn’t have copy of his resumé and that there wasn’t a printer in the house, he’d need to go to the library to print it from the floppy disk he had in his briefcase. 

He tried to relax a bit, five was still hours away. He had more than enough time to get himself presentable enough for an interview. So he continued to haul out the mattress from the house. 

It took him another three hours to drag out the second mattress, the box springs, and to break down the rusty bed-frames. He hadn’t anticipated needing to pull them apart but they were too wide to move through any of the interior doors. Taking them apart hadn’t been easy either. The screws were stripped and rusted in place. But he’d finally done it after some effort and as he stood staring at the clock in the kitchen he almost wished it had taken longer. His nerves were making him jittery without a task to focus his mind on something other than the interview. 

He stripped off his clothes, his t-shirt was damp with sweat and there was no way he could be out in public without a shower after he’d lugged all the furniture to the curb. He showered and changed into his least wrinkled pair of slacks and a button down shirt before taking his keys from the pants he’d worn the night before. He repacked his duffel bag and headed out to his car.

Waylon checked the trunk to see if his briefcase was still there, thankfully it was, he swapped it with his duffle bag and took it with him to the front of the car, tossing it in beside him into the passenger seat. 

Smithers pulled out of the driveway and made his way down familiar streets, the old red brick library wasn’t far, the route was short, no more than a mile, but as a kid it had seemed clear across town. He’d enjoyed those walks though, they were free of the panicked excitement of school and the tense surveillance he experienced at home.

The library was stuffy inside and empty aside from a few older people scattered at the computers and a homeless man sleeping in a pleather chair with popped seams near the front door. Waylon chose a computer in the far corner and booted it up. He slid the floppy disk into the tower and scrolled through the files to find his most up to date resumé. Opening it, he adjusted the details beside his description of duties for Prince and Sprawling so that it reflected the fact he no longer worked for the firm.

God he could only hope that John Prince’s new assistant, whoever that poor soul happened to be, would give a diplomatic response when the power plant called for a reference. 

He clicked the print icon, stood, and walked to the aging printer against the wall, he dropped in ten cents and after some whining the machine spat out a copy of his resumé. He grabbed it, enjoying the warm feeling of the paper between his fingers, and headed for the door. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted a vending machine, the bags of chips drooping forward inside suddenly looked like mana in the desert. 

He knew it was unhealthy that he hadn’t had a proper meal in two days but the anxiety had kept him distracted enough to stave off real hunger.

A few more coins later and he was sitting in his car with the window rolled down, a cigarette in his mouth, and two balled up chip bags on the passenger seat. Preparation enough for an interview he supposed. 

He started the car and shifted it into gear. It was nearing five and the power plant was on the outskirts of town. The trip was easy enough though, few people were on the road this early on a weekday. It was comfortable in a way to be free from the looming skyscrapers and constant road work, although the streets of Springfield certainly needed repairs. As he blew through another cigarette he finally began to relax. There wasn’t anything wrong with not getting the job, he had a tidy nest egg and the condo wasn’t going anywhere. If he aced the interview he could just chalk it up as a boost for his ego, the job wasn’t so important. He still shivered just a little when the trees and charming city blocks gave way to the harsh and vast expanse of the plant’s concrete base.

Up close the nuclear plant lost none of its menacing bulk, the chain link fence that surrounded it seemed to go on forever. Waylon noted that the razor wire curved inwards over the employee parking lot instead of out, he wondered how the workers felt about that. 

Pulling up to the security booth he rolled down his window and leaned out towards the sleepy looking security guard. The guard pressed a button to lift the gate arm before Smithers even had a chance to say anything.

“Uh, sir?”

The man looked at him with dull surprise, clearly not expecting Smithers to stop. 

“Hm, yeah?”

“I’m here for an interview, could you tell me where the administration office is?”

“Uh, yeah,” he pointed over his shoulder without turning, “go into the main building there, it’s on the second floor.” 

“Thanks,” Waylon said before driving through the gates. 

He pulled into a spot not too far from the building the guard had pointed to and shut off the engine. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard, four forty-five, he’d made good time. Waylon glanced at himself in the rear view mirror, and smoothed his hair just a bit before grabbing his briefcase, opening the car door and stepping out into the lot.

There was a thrumming in the air, a mild vibration, maybe from the plant’s huge cooling towers and the machinery hidden behind the thick concrete walls. 

A flock of crows huddled around a murky puddle in the parking lot like a bad omen. A few cawed as he passed by them but they didn’t scatter and simply watched him with an unnerving interest. It was possible the employees fed them, he supposed.

The building’s front entrance lacked the pomp of the sliding glass that graced most Capital City offices then, favoring instead a windowless steel door that took a bit of force to shove open when he leaned against the rusty push bar. Inside was hardly any more modern, stern cement brick walls painted thickly with a chipping grayish paint and a beige linoleum floor. Workers swished through rooms in lab coats and safety vests, a few with hard hats on. 

He made his way down the hall to the staircase and hurried up it to the next floor. Aesthetically very little changed, but the few employees cloistered in cramped offices lacked the safety vests. He finally found the office marked “Baumer” and tapped on the open door with his knuckles as he peered inside.

A youngish woman with thick rimmed glasses and short dark hair set in tight curls looked up at him from her computer.

“Ms. Baumer?”

“Mr. Smithers?” She looked vaguely surprised, as if she wasn’t quite expecting him. 

“Sorry I’m a bit early,” Smithers said, as he stepped into the spare office, “I can wait if you’re busy.”

“Oh, no, come in. You can sit there.” She gestured to the worn wooden chair that looked suspiciously out of place, most likely dragged here for the sole purpose of his interview.

Smithers sat down and pulled his resumé from his briefcase, he held it out to her and she took it from his hand. The smell of Aqua Net, which at first he had only caught a whiff of in the doorway, now was a miasma beside her desk, he coughed gently into his hand.

She scanned his references and flipped the page quietly before looking back up at him with a vague hint of concern.

“You really want to work here?”

Smithers blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“You’ve been in Capital City for a long time,” she paused, “I’m sorry I’m not being very professional, you’re just a very good candidate, and the turnover here-“ 

She stopped herself again seeming a bit lost.

“Is it really that bad?” Smithers said after a few moments, a distinct sinking feeling in his stomach.

She smiled slightly as if about to deliver a serious prognosis with her best bedside manner. “Most people work here because they have to, not because they want to.” 

“I’m not desperate if that’s what you’re asking me.” In a way that felt like a lie.

“No I’m- I’m sorry, why don’t we just go through this interview?” She glanced at his resumé again. “You’re overqualified if anything. Most candidates are straight out of the community college.” 

The phone on her desk rang suddenly, her brow knitted and she pressed down a button.

“Yes, Mr. Burns?”

“Ms. Baumer!” 

Smithers jumped at the sharp voice that spat from the speaker.

“Where is Mr. Ryan? It’s well past five!” 

Smithers checked his watch, five minutes past five.

Baumer looked exasperated, she craned her neck and peered through the doorframe into an empty office Smithers had passed earlier. 

She pressed down the button to speak again. “It looks like he went to lunch and didn’t come back.”

“Goldbricker!” Burns seethed, crackling through the intercom. “Find someone to drive me home immediately, Ms. Baumer!”

“I’m interviewing someone at the moment, sir-“

“Then send him up! I shouldn’t have to explain these things to you!”

Baumer looked at Smithers apologetically. “Mr. Burns, he doesn’t work for us.”

“Then hire him!” The line clicked and the buzz of the dial tone followed.

Smithers frowned when Helaine Baumer sighed and ended the call. “Is he always like that?” 

She shrugged. “Today is worse than usual, we aren’t as staffed as we normally are. He fired another chauffeur recently.” She stood and Smithers followed suit. “I’m sorry, I have to cut this short, I guess, there really isn’t anyone else here who can drive him back to the manor and I-“ She glanced down at the floor and Smithers followed her gaze. Poking out from behind the desk was a cardboard box filled with personal items, potted plants, a few framed photos, a diploma.

“We’ll have to set you up another interview with someone else, if you want the job, I’m sorry.”

Smithers looked back up at her. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll drive him home.” 

She stared at him, near slack-jawed. “I can’t let you do that-“

“Really, it’s not a problem,” he tried to sound nonchalant, “I know my way around Springfield, I can do it as a favor.”

She seemed relieved, but there was a touch of concern in her voice when she said, “You’ll need to catch a cab back here though. I really couldn’t ask you to do this.”

Smithers hadn’t thought of that but he shrugged, feigning indifference. “I don’t mind, I haven’t seen Springfield in years, driving through it is,” he frowned, searching for a diplomatic term, “nostalgic.”

“Thank you, Mr. Smithers, I really mean that.” She stuck out her hand across the desk and Waylon shook it. “Mr. Burns’ office is four more floors up, you can’t miss it.”

She was right. On the sixth floor Waylon was breathless from the steep stairs and the sudden change in atmosphere. The concrete walls and linoleum floor were buried somewhere beneath layers of lavish wood paneling and a thick red carpet. He was reminded of photographs he’d seen once of The Breakers in one of his mother’s coffee table books, considering Burns’ age he wouldn’t be surprised if the architect of this particular hall was of the same ilk.

The heavy wood doors of Burns’ office reached up to the ceiling, looming over him, he wrapped a hand around the gilded brass handle and pulled it open with some effort, just enough for him to step halfway into the office.

The decor was no less ostentatious inside than it was in the corridor. A thick rug covered much of the carpeting, sprawling out to the solid wood desk. Smithers frowned at the snarling taxidermy bear that reached out towards him, claws extended, its ferocity dampened by the sag of its old pelt over the scaffolding that held it up and a layer of dust on its cracked nose. 

“Uh,” he cleared his throat and stepped farther into the room. “Mr. Burns?”

The tall leather chair, framed neatly by a wide window, its view of the sky crowded out by the hulking cooling towers, swiveled half a turn and Burns peered around its high back. He scowled at Smithers, then spun to face him head on.

He looked just as haughty and aristocratic as Smithers remembered him, though he was balder now, his combover abandoned. His hair had lost much of it color too, nearly white. He was surprised though, Burns wasn’t as feeble as Smithers had imagined he’d become over the last decade or so.

“And just who are you?” Burns demanded, leaning forward, a thin finger poised over what Smithers presumed to be some sort of panic button.

“Waylon Smithers, sir, I was just in an interview with Ms. Baumer?”

Burns’ hand wavered over the button as he scrutinized Smithers. “Waylon Smithers?” He echoed. “Why do you look so familiar?”

“Ah, you may have worked with my father, sir.” 

“Hm? Oh, yes.” Burns’ crooked trigger finger relaxed and he sat back more comfortably in his chair. “For a moment I thought I was having another stroke, or that you were some apparition, I nearly set the hounds on you!”

“The hounds?”

“Yes, the hounds, though I think they are still at the manor, that Mr. Ryan is always shirking his duties, if he’s gone, good riddance!” He focused again on Smithers. “Now what do you want? And who let you in? I’m a very busy man I don’t have time to chew the fat with some former employee’s progeny.” 

Waylon blinked. “I’m just here to drive you home, sir. Ms. Baumer sent me up?”

Burns seemed thrown. “Oh.” He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “I certainly hope you don’t plan on getting the job because your father was some drudge a score ago. We have standards for our employees here.”

Smithers thought about Mr. Ryan’s apparent disappearance during his lunch break and Burns’ lackluster review of him but didn’t breathe a word of it. 

“No, sir, of course not.” 

Seemingly satisfied with this response, Burns stood and crossed the office toward him. He brushed past Smithers and into the hall where he turned and scowled again. 

“Well, what are you lolly gagging for? Time and tide wait for no man.”

He turned with that and Smithers followed quickly behind, realizing they weren’t headed to the stairwell he’d come up. Instead they stopped in front of an elevator. Waylon felt just a hint of embarrassment that he’d climbed all those flights of stairs and not paused for a moment to look for an elevator. 

He supposed, in his defense, the building wasn’t as modern as the towers in Capital City, but he’d certainly misjudged it. 

Burns cleared his throat.

Smithers glanced at him and was met again with a black look. Burns shifted his eyes pointedly to the elevator’s call button.

“Oh.” Waylon pressed it and the door slid open with an inappropriately cheery ding.

They stepped on together and Smithers pushed the button for the lobby. For a moment they stood in an uncomfortable silence as the elevator hummed around them. 

Smithers peered at Burns out of the corner of his eye, wondering if he should make small talk, and immediately wished he hadn’t. Burns was still, his sharp gaze paralyzing, clearly inspecting Smithers. 

Waylon straightened up involuntarily and shifted from foot to foot under the weight of Burns’ stare.

He had an intimidating presence for a man of eighty, and seemed to regard Smithers with little more than contempt, glaring at down his nose at him. There was something a bit charming though, about his pink tie and slightly ill-fitted suit, a little too short in some ways, too long in others, it was tailored once, maybe years ago. He figured the man had to have some charisma about him, to be as successful a businessman as he was, but his coarse demeanor was very different from the smooth, ever-so-cultivated executives in Capital City. 

“Are all of your clothes so slapdash? Haven’t you got a woman to iron for you?” Burns demanded, yanking him from his thoughts.

Waylon looked down at his rumpled shirt and the wobbly creases in his trousers. “Uh, no, sir, on both accounts.” He tried in vain to smooth out one particularly offensive wrinkle across his chest. “I was just in town for the night and hadn’t really expected to get this interview.”

“Well, I certainly hope Ms. Baumer marked your attire down in her notes. I expect a certain level of professionalism from my employees, Mr. Smithers.” They stepped out from the elevator onto the first floor. “This certainly isn’t some two-bit operation like you young people are used to, none of that ‘casual Friday’ nonsense,” he huffed. 

As Smithers followed Burns down the hall employees made themselves scarce, ducking quietly out of the corridor or at least burying their noses into clipboards. The few that did watch stared at him with interest, it was clear he was fresh blood. 

Smithers pulled open the door to the parking lot and Burns looked vaguely pleased with this. His car was just steps away and when they reached it he opened the rear door with a set of keys from his pocket before handing them to Smithers. He opened the car door himself and climbed in, he grabbed the door to shut it but before he did he looked up at Waylon dubiously.

“You do know where the manor is, don’t you?” His tone was imperious.

Smithers gave him a polite smile despite that. “Yes, I used to live in Springfield, sir.”

Burns shrugged and pulled the door shut.

Waylon laughed a bit to himself. It was entertaining the way Burns didn’t pull any punches, strangely authentic after all his shallow interactions with men with the same practiced smile and designer brand suits. 

Of course, he figured, the novelty may wear off. 

He opened the driver’s side door and orientated himself, which was difficult, the car was wide and not at all like his compact sedan. He could feel Burns watching him over the seat. 

He stuck the key into the ignition and started it, easy enough, so was shifting gears. Maneuvering, however, proved to be a bitch, the old car turned like he imagined a battleship would and had clearly been built at the very advent of power steering. 

As he carefully navigated through the lot Burns leaned forward, his face close to Smithers’ shoulder. Waylon could see the way his brow was arched suspiciously in the rear view mirror.

“You’ve driven a car before haven’t you?”

Smithers chuckled a little as they pulled through the security gate. “Uh, yes, sir, I drove here in fact. But it’s an older model than I’m used to.”

Burns hummed thoughtfully but stayed hovering near Waylon’s shoulder as they turned away from the plant and headed down the road towards the highway on-ramp. The sun was nearly set and the roads were dark in the fading blue light. 

“You say you used to live in Springfield?”

“Mmhm, I left for college and then worked in Capital City for a long time.” 

“Is that so? Where?” 

“Well, recently at Prince and Sprawling,” Smithers responded hoping that he sounded casual.

“Oh, yes, Prince and Sprawling, I’ve done some business with them over the years, decent fellows. What was your position?” Burns continued.

“I was assistant to John Prince,”

“John, you say? I always did prefer him to that Hugh.” Smithers couldn’t blame him, Hugh Sprawling was blustery and somehow even more self-absorbed than John Prince. All-in-all a difficult person to get along with, not that he’d fared much better in the end though. 

“Well, Mr. Smithers, you are certainly a catch!”

Waylon was taken aback. “I’m sorry?”

“I could use someone like you, someone with inside knowledge of the Prince and Sprawling firm,” he said with a conspiratorial air, “you see, Mr. Smithers, I’m no stranger to litigation, and, as you know, one must keep his friends close and his enemies closer.”

“Well, sir, I hardly think I know-“

“Nonsense! You just file away whatever little details you might have about John Prince and if the need ever arises, well, we’ll talk.” He reached over and gripped Smithers’ shoulder. “I need a hard worker, Smithers, I’m sick of these little assistants hopping on and off like fleas, parasites the lot of them. You seem like a professional! Er, despite your attire...”

“I really don’t dress like this, sir,” Smithers said, relieved that Burns seemed to have distracted himself from the topic of Prince and Sprawling. 

“No wife at home? A man of your age?” Burns had let go of his shoulder and was watching the cars on the highway. Smithers thought he looked a bit wistful as the headlights of passing cars washed over his face. 

“Uh, no, I guess I never settled down, too busy for that.” 

Too busy or too picky, he’d never met a man he seemed to connect with, despite so many dinner dates and even a particularly depressing speed dating phase. Work was all he could talk about, it felt uncomfortable having anyone know more about him than that. He supposed that’s why so many people married straight out of college, but at that time he’d hardly been comfortable admitting to himself the simple truth.

“Are you married, Mr. Burns?”

“Eugh, no, women are foreign creatures to me.” 

Smithers raised an eyebrow at that.

“I was at one time, Mater’s idea, not an awful woman, but I believe I met her only once.” 

“Before the wedding?” Waylon asked incredulously.

“Oh no, I was too busy for bushwah like that, missed the whole wedding, but I did come across her in the manor, she was having tea in the parlor, we made small talk, terribly boring.”

Waylon sat stunned for a moment trying to process this information. 

Burns’ hand slapping his shoulder startled him though. “Pay attention, man!” He snapped. “Our exit is the next one!”

“Oh, sorry.” Smithers flicked the blinker and crossed the lanes towards the exit leading to Springfield’s wealthiest suburb.

“Are you divorced then?” He asked as he turned off the highway.

“Hm? Oh yes, I think so, though, maybe she died before that. It hardly matters.” He shrugged.

They sat in silence for a while as Smithers turned through the winding streets, there was little old money in Springfield, Burns Manor was possibly the oldest home he knew of. But plenty of TV stars and various business moguls had built their stucco McMansions here over the years, the neighborhood was denser than he remembered it. 

But far in the back the old manor house still loomed on its hill. As they pulled into the drive Burns tapped his shoulder and pointed to a small button clipped to the sun visor above Smithers.

“Press that would you?”

Smithers did what he was told and the gates of the manor swung open slowly.

“One of my chauffeurs had that installed, convenient isn’t it? Though I’m partial to a bit of man power.” 

Smithers arched a brow and hummed in agreement as they continued up the drive. He stopped the car in front of the front steps and Burns patted his arm.

“Park it in the garage, Mr. Smithers. And then come up to the house, you can call a taxicab on the telephone inside.” 

“Yes, sir.”

Without another word Burns got out of the car and slammed the door behind him. 

Smithers drove the car down to the garage where he parked it. As he walked back up the driveway he was struck by just how easy it was to talk with Burns. The conversation had been oddly genuine, maybe the old man was just lonely, it hardly seemed like people enjoyed interacting with him. He climbed the manor steps, and knocked on the door.

When it opened he was surprised to find a grim-looking man in a white shirt and black pants behind it, not Burns. 

“Uh, Mr. Burns said I could use the phone? I need a cab back to my car.”

“Yes, come in,” the butler, or at least that’s what Waylon presumed him to be, said a bit gruffly. He opened the door farther and stepped aside to let Smithers in. 

Waylon gazed up at the cavernous manor hall, struck by the vast expanse of cold marble and stairs that went up endlessly. 

“Mr. Burns told me you be needing a cab, I’ve brought the phone out,” the man said gesturing to a small table with an ancient rotary phone on it, a wire connected to its base stretched across the floor and off into another room. “There’s a cab company listed on that card beside it.”

“Oh, okay, thank you.” Smithers turned away, but could feel the butler still watching him from a distance.

He dialed the number he was given with some difficulty, he’d never used a rotary phone in his life, and after a brief exchange with the dispatcher he was back to standing awkwardly beside the butler who hadn’t even introduced himself. 

“Uh, where’s Mr. Burns?” He asked after a few uncomfortable minutes. 

“He’s having dinner.” The response was clipped and stern.

“Oh,” Waylon cleared his throat, “Well my cab will be here soon then.” It occurred to him only then that he was half-starved, he’d need to get something to eat before he went back to his parents’ house or maybe a hotel.

“Good, we’ll see you promptly at six then?”

“Six? AM?” Waylon gawked at him.

“Yes, that’s when Mr. Burns expects you lot to arrive, at least until he hires a new chauffeur. If he ever does, that is.”

“Could I maybe speak to him? No one has even told me I’ve been hired yet.”

The butler stared at him for a moment. “You’re hired,” he said stiffly.

“What if I don’t want the job?” Smithers snapped back.

The butler shrugged. “Don’t show up tomorrow. Now, I think you have a cab to catch.”

Waylon snorted and waved him off before opening the door and hurriedly making his way down the steps. No wonder Burns didn’t talk to anyone with staff like that.

He sighed, from what he could tell it was probably Burns’ personality that made them so surly. He strode down the drive and was relieved to see the cab pulling up to the gates. Again they were swinging open towards him slowly, no doubt operated remotely by the butler back at the manor. He passed through them and hopped into the cab.

“Hey, there!” The cabbie greeted him in a nervous but friendly tone. He was disheveled, a crooked tie around his neck and an uneasy smile on his face. He looked down on his luck. 

“Where ya going, buddy?” He asked cheerily.

“Uh, the power plant, please.”

“You got it!” The cabbie put the car in drive and made a sloppy u-turn in the wide street.

“You work there?”

“Sort of,” Smithers said miserably. 

“Lost your job, well, I know a thing or two about that, eh-heh,” the man laughed awkwardly.

“Yeah.” The cabbie kept talking but all Smithers could muster up in terms of conversation were a few grunts of acknowledgement at the proper intervals. 

They reached the power plant and the cabbie drove him to his car in the lot where he paid the man and climbed into his own car. 

For a moment he thought about going back to his parents’ house and spending the night there with the old blanket and pillow on the floor, just to save a bit of money, but in the end he figured he’d better get a decent night of sleep if he were to take this job. And oddly enough, despite his initial reluctance, he couldn’t help feeling like it wouldn’t be that bad, at least for the time being.

Considering the turnover at the plant he supposed he could just slip out whenever he’d had enough and make his way back to Capital City or maybe some other big city out of state. A sort of work vacation, he joked to himself. Hell, he didn’t even know what the pay would be like at the plant, but at the moment, it didn’t matter, he was free of Capital City, free of those claustrophobic streets and conversations with another corporate drone who at the end of the day only cared if the interaction got him closer to the next promotion.

Off the highway he found a burger joint and ordered what had to be the greasiest burger in the state, he only managed to eat half of it and the fries he was given before he felt too nauseous to continue. He crumpled up the paper bag around the uneaten half and turned off the feeder road along the highway when he saw a dim neon light advertising vacancy and color TV. 

The motel was a grimy dump but Waylon was so tired and the pain in his finger, which up until now he had been completely distracted from, was starting to make itself known again. 

He parked out front, fetched his bag from the trunk and double-checked that he’d locked the car doors before heading to the motel lobby. He tossed what was left of his sandwich into a near overflowing garbage can beside the entrance. 

Inside, the motel office was hardly more inviting than its crumbling stucco facade. The wood paneling veneer on the walls was peeling away revealing a stained green wallpaper beneath and everything, the floors, walls, and ceiling seemed to sag, as if the foundation had been built crooked. 

The reception desk on the far wall was split in some places, the particle board warped with age and possibly water damage. Sitting behind the counter was a young woman with bottle blonde hair and a cigarette in the corner of her mouth. 

She stared him down as he stepped up to the desk.

“I need a room for one,” Smithers said and she shoved a clipboard forward across the counter to him.

“Forty bucks, you sure just for one? ‘Cause I gotta charge you if I see you bringing anyone over there.” The cigarette wobbled on her lip as she spoke. 

Oh, so it was that sort of motel.

“Uh, yeah, I’m sure,” he said as he signed his name beside the room number 210.

He looked back up at her, she didn’t seem convinced.

“Cash?” She asked flatly, her eyebrows raised.

“Uh, no, card.” Smithers pulled out his wallet and the girl rolled her eyes as if this were all just an elaborate game they were playing. 

She punched the card nonetheless and handed it back with his receipt. 

“Check out’s at noon, try to keep it down.”

Smithers tried not to grimace and took the keys when she slid them across the counter. 

He headed out of the office and up the decrepit metal steps to his room on the second floor. The room was clean enough, the smell of Fabuloso hung thick in the air. He figured it was the least he could ask for. 

In the dingy bathroom Waylon brushed his teeth and popped another pill. He stripped to his boxers and undershirt and psyched himself up for a moment before crawling between the polyester sheets of the motel room bed. 

His finger still hurt, but it was beginning to dull just a little. Still too wired to fall asleep, Smithers steeled himself and lifted the receiver of the grubby phone on the bedside table. He dialed his mother’s number.

The line connected almost immediately after the first ring and Waylon was relieved to hear his mother’s voice on the other end.

“Hello?”

“Hey, mom, it’s me.”

“Hi, Waylon,” she sounded tired, “we’ve been getting settled here, when are you coming back?”

“Mom,” he sighed, “I got a job here, I think I’m going to stay for a while.”

There was silence on the line. Smithers hoped that the pill would kick in soon so he could fall asleep without turning the conversation that was about to transpire over and over in his head as he tried to rest.

“Where?” Her voice was just a crackling hiss.

“The nuclear plant.” He braced himself.

“Why?”

“It’s a good job, and I need to be away from Capital City for a bit.” He could hear her starting to speak again and cut her off. “Look, I’ll come up this weekend and help, the house is all clear here so don’t worry about that.”

“This isn’t a good idea,” she said almost to quietly for him to catch. “He’ll kill you, you know that?”

“What?” Waylon scoffed, “What are you talking about?”

“That Mr. Burns,” she spat, “he’ll run you ragged and spit you out, that’s what working at that plant did to your father.”

“Mom, it’s not that bad,” he laughed awkwardly, “if things don’t go well I’ll just quit and come back to Capital City, I still have the condo there.”

“Don’t bother.” Waylon was taken aback by the venom in her voice. “I tried to warn you and you just didn’t listen, don’t bother coming this weekend, I don’t want to see you.” The line disconnected abruptly.

Smithers groaned as he hung up the receiver and took off his glasses, setting them down on the table. This sort of fight wasn’t uncommon for them, in fact if he didn’t make an appearance in Capital City that weekend he was likely to get a call from her demanding to know where he was. In a few days she wouldn’t be over their argument, but she likely wouldn’t bring it up. 

He grabbed TV remote from its place by the phone and flipped through the channels, passing innumerable late night infomercials until he landed on some faceless seventies sitcom. The low murmur of voices and perfectly timed laugh-track after the beat of each tame joke was enough to distract himself from the phone call. It helped that the pill had taken effect and his thoughts were fuzzy and disjointed.

Within minutes he had fallen asleep watching the warm soft washes of color that flickered across the worn blanket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew... Sorry about the wait it’s been a long month but I’m really happy to get this moving forward again! Thank you all for all the kind comments :)


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